Bloodbath
by gschelt
Summary: "Joey, I plan to make it really hard for you not to like me." Events of Season 1 from a different perspective: that of a Joey not in love with Dawson, but with Jen. J/J femslash, overflowing with angst.
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's Note:** First off, I know the title is lame. I couldn't come up with anything better. Second, I seriously cannot believe that there is next to **no **femslash for Dawson's Creek. So many possibilities! Come on. That being said, this thunderbolt hit me when I was having a DC marathon with my sister. She bought me the entire first season for Christmas, and when we were watching I noticed overall that if it weren't for the fact that she was in love with Dawson, Joey would be a __**classic **closet case. Who better for her to be hot for than Jen? There's this scene in episode 2, "Dance"; it was my takeoff point for chapter 1 of my story here. Absolutely __dripping with sexual tension. So I figured I'd run with it. The action and dialogue are all canon.  
I own nothing.  
_

* * *

It's hard to know why you stare the way you do, why you just let your jaw clench and your eyes bulge like she's talking about genital piercings or UFO conspiracy theories while she begins to mop the blood off your throat. Really, why _are_ you staring? Do you really have to make the moment more awkward than it really is, standing on Dawson's screened porch, covered from the chest up in fake movie blood, while Jen tries to help get some of it off you? Add to that the uncomfortably compromising position between the two of you, the fact that you're polar opposites _and_ you're both swimming in the clumsy sexual tension between her and Dawson. Not to mention the way neither of you have been particularly friendly toward one another, though that's probably all from your side, and here Jen is going out of her way to bridge that gap. And all you can do is stand and gape.

Like the way you did that day when she stepped out of that cab, floral print dress clinging to her unassuming curves, and time stopped. The boys were transfixed. And, ironically enough, it was a day of filming for Dawson's little movie project. Just like today.

It's hard to just stand there and let her be kind to you, number one reason being that it's _unbearably_ awkward. Number two reason being that you have every reason in the world to hate her, and you do, but really, you never think of all those logical (_illogical_, really, and immature) reasons when you're around her. You just start getting frigid out of instinct, out of… out of what, a defense mechanism? Fight or flight? What are you so scared of, Joey? The fact that she's a threat to your friendship with Dawson, the fact that you're _jealous_? Or is it something far less predictable than that, is it something no one, including _you_, would even see coming?

"Let me help you get that blood off," she'd said casually, coming through the screen door with a stack of towels, immediately unbuttoning that oversized blue work shirt of yours and mopping at the streaks of fake blood that had spurted from the mock-Joey film dummy. And you'd twitched stupidly like a skittish horse or something, protesting, and of course she brushed it aside nonchalantly. And now, now she's dabbing at your cleavage like it's the most natural thing in the world and you're wondering why the hell she has to do this. You remember why you hate her so much, and at the same time you remember that your reason for hating her is a complete paradox. The fact that that's so makes you angry all over again, and you blush crimson at her unashamed touch.

It's absolutely _maddening_ how she has no care in the world, how she has to tease you this way in such an oblivious, friendly manner.

"Seems like it's really stuck on there," she mutters as she dabs at your chest, hand rubbing at the narrow valley just above your bikini top, and for the love of god you could just die on the spot.

Jen reaches for another towel, saying that she ought to cover you up, and you just kind of stand there and gape openmouthed at the implications that you'll be taking your top off in a matter of seconds. But the gaping isn't just that, it's the whirl of it all; you're still just a tad overwhelmed by this sudden interaction. Because Jen is still talking to you, one-on-one, for the first time since she arrived, and not only that but she's touching you (_it means _nothing_, come on_) and you really just weren't prepared.

Your cheeks grow hotter as she throws the towel around your shoulders and wraps it around to hide you from sight (the boys are just outside of the porch, getting more equipment ready for the next take), and she's blocking your front so you should be fine. That part of you that's blocked by Jen's front – you know, your own front – is the part of you that's totally visible to her though. And she doesn't care, so why should you? It's all just changing, getting out of a bloody bikini top, so you hurriedly do so, blinking as you look off to the side. Between a couple of girls, what's a glimpse of your chest? You try to convince yourself.

"You have nice breasts, by the way," Jen comments abruptly, nonchalantly, and this time you definitely can't mask your expression of utter astonishment. The one that mimics that old cliché of seeing someone grow three heads. You can't think of anything to say in reply, of course, and just stare some more, so she continues. "I mean, don't get the wrong idea," she says with a smile, wringing out the bloody rag while you wrap the towel tight around yourself, "I'm completely hetero. Just commenting girl to girl. You have a really nice body." You force a glazed smile and nod weakly, wishing you knew why you feel so hot and sick all of a sudden.

But you _do_ know why, and that's why you can't stand to be around her, can't stand to see Dawson holding her hand. That's why you think you might hate her.

"Thanks," you mutter slowly, looking away awkwardly while you hug your elbows close and hastily wrap the towel around yourself. And while she has another go at those streaks of blood on your neck and chin and ever so slightly brushes your hair out of the way, you desperately hope that she doesn't catch the way you're gawking at her, lips parted and brow creased together, like she's doing something offensive. Maybe she is. All you know is it's strange and embarrassing how whenever Jen is looking at you, you avert your eyes, but whenever she's focused on something else (like your neck, as she runs a towel down it) you can't stop staring at her.

It's too much, it's far too much, and before you know it the alert goes off in your head that you knew would inevitably sound; the one that always makes you say or do something moody or catty. It's a wonder you'd stood still this long, letting her be nice to you, letting her touch you (and damn her for that, why does she have to do it?). So you get cold like those dozens of other times where you completely clam up, turn off, communicate that dislike for her, and you turn away from her and busy yourself with cleaning _yourself_ up. But if your skin is any indication you're anything _but_ cold; you're flushed and hot and that's why you have to turn your back on her.

Jen just picks up your bloodstained blue shirt from the wicker table, not missing a beat, and gathers herself from the awkward moment. She knew it was coming, honestly, and you know it. She smiles and, as she swings away towards the screen door, turns back to you.

"Joey, I plan to make it really hard for you not to like me," she says smoothly, raising her eyebrows at you challengingly. With that, she backs out the door, smiling after you, and you can do nothing but hug your arms close, feeling silly and vulnerable in that towel, and stare down at the flaked green planks of the porch's floor. You absolutely loathe the fact that it's hard enough already.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Author's Note:** Angstiest bit of work I've ever written to date? Probably. Then again, when you're dealing with a sexually confused and closeted Joey (which I've made her), what else could it be? This chapter's set in the season 1 episode "Detention", where they do that whole Breakfast Club thing. Like the last chapter, all actions and most dialogue is canon. I just filled in the thoughts with what I was imagining would go perfectly there when I was watching it._

* * *

You are. Sick. There's no other word to describe the way you feel, hunched over that library table, hugging your arms close and looking at the grain of the wood as you feel your limbs cramp. You feel absolutely sick to your stomach. And it's a good thing, you guess, that Saturday detention will be over in a matter of minutes, but even that fact can't keep you from feeling dizzy, nauseous, like the entire eight hours has come to this needle point right here, right now. As Dawson stands with Jen over at by the card catalogue, as the room is silent and you other three listen to Dawson pour his heart out. He tells Jen his insecurities, that he wishes he could be everything she wants, that he's worried he's not enough, that he thinks she's doesn't _want_ him. Then she takes his hand, lips a-tremble, and tells him he's all she could ever want because he's _so_ sensitive and _so_ sweet. And the library is swimming before your eyes and yes, you feel sick, and yes your lips are twisted in a helpless snarl. It's the last straw because everyone is being intimate (Pacey and his lost virginity, Dawson and Jen and their relationship) and for some reason that scares you to death.

"You know, when did everyone become so obsessed with sex?" you ask loudly, suddenly, ruining the moment. Your eyes flash back and forth and you're trembling because it all feels so wrong, how everyone is reaching their clarity and their resolution and you just _can't_. Not like they can, it's just not that easy. "If you're worried that everyone is more experienced than you, Dawson, you can rest easy," you spit, unable to help yourself from flushing crimson. "You still have one friend who will probably go to her grave a virgin." And the tail end of the sentence drops, your voice going low to a whisper with unexplainable shame.

"Joey," Dawson protests softly, trying to be kind, "it's only a matter of time."

"Before what, before I lose it and bed down with every guy who has a fast car and a good body?" You're panicking now, unable to stop yourself from talking and you know the others are staring but you're severely scared. Scared that you're being left behind, that you're terribly and devastatingly _alone_.

"Before you find the right person," Dawson says innocently, concerned, truly believing it's so simple as that. Speaking to you as though you hadn't thought of it already. Your neck starts burning, and so do your ears, as you become stiflingly aware of Pacey's and Jen's and Abbie's eyes on you. But it's more than that, it's that you're on the spot. And it's more than that, it's the weight of the truth pressing in on you from all side and you really _do_ feel ill. Stupid tears sting your eyes and a sick sort of smile springs to your lips. So do the words.

"I have." Your eyes are moving, anywhere but to be looking at a human face, anything to make the tears evaporate from your eyes. For god's sake, if he sees you crying… If _she_ sees you crying, but you don't want it to be about her. It was always about her, she was always involved, but yet again you're angry and bitter about it. You hate that it's her, and you hate that you're this close to admitting it.

"Joey?" Dawson's voice is so small when he drops in the chair in front of you, and all you can see is his face, confused and concerned. He's your best friend and honestly, this is too much. This is far too much for any fifteen your old girl to handle. You crack, and you forget about the others watching and the fact that you're sick and scared and that there's something wrong with you.

"I don't know what to say," you tell him, your voice lurching and uneven. "I have these feelings, all these weird feelings and I _can't_ say it. I mean…" You break, pressing your hand to your tearstained face, trying to bury your eyes in your knuckles and choking on your breath. "We've known each other for so long and you know everything about me… Everything, and I can't even say this." And your face crumples in those hateful tears as you look on helplessly, frustrated, into Dawson's eyes. You can see his wide-eyed, bewildered worry, you can see that he's getting scared too because he's never seen you like this and he isn't quite sure what you're talking about.

"And I just feel," you whisper, "so lonely."

"Joey, you're not alone, I'm-"

"Yes, I am." You shake your head from side to side, eyes squeezed shut, the heat and the silence from the rest of the room suffocating you.

"I'm here for you, Joey, I was here for you in sixth grade and I'm here for you now. Maybe if you just say these things then they'll be out in the open, and… and you'll feel free." You shake your head violently as Dawson puts his hand on your shoulder and you're still crying. You can't breathe. And you have this feeling that no one in the world knows what it's like, and still you wish you could tell him but you can't. It's so wrong.

"I can't," you choke, your voice barely audible. "I can't. Because if I say it, I can't ever take it back. It'll change everything, and I can't do that." Your words are halting and your face is contorted. Dawson just stares at you, big blue eyes at a loss. Abbie stares at you. Pacey stares at the carpet. Jen stares at you, eyes shining, lip trembling, and more searing heat floods to your face. You hate that she's watching you, you hate that she has to see you like this. You hate that this has to happen with everyone here, listening, and you hate that you can't even say it. You can't even admit it to yourself; that what, you have a thing for your best friend's girlfriend? Even thinking it, it's like a sour slap to the face. It leaves you feeling low and filthy, and full of bitter anger towards yourself. And Jen. It's her fault that you feel like this, she caused it. She got out of that cab and your heart stopped and ever since you've been second-guessing yourself.

You like her. You like her, you like a girl. You're scared to death of admitting it, of _being_ it. And as your best friend romances her, as everyone around you begins to learn to fall in love, you feel so achingly alone.

Detention ends before any more questions can come. Everyone looks around soberly, awkwardly. You wipe your face, get up from your chair, and leave, avoiding every pair of eyes that follows you out, especially the ones that you'd most hate to see looking at you with a sympathy you yearn for but really don't even feel you deserve.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Author's Note:** It's a silly story, but someone's gotta write it. I don't know how long I'll end up making this, but I think 2 more chapters oughtta do it. This one is set at the beginning of episode 11, "Double Date". The action's all still strictly canon.  
_

* * *

Dawson and Jen are officially history, and of course you've got to stand cheering loyally for team Dawson. It's your role, it's who you are, and acting otherwise would be like walking on your hands. So, predictably, you find yourself in his room late at night, listening to him lament about it. It's strange the way your meltdown in the library hadn't been explored any further; it had been forgotten within a matter of days, and no one seemed to want to go any further with it. In a way it relieves you; in fact, it _really_ relieves you. But still, it means that Dawson has moved on to bigger and better things: his own problems. And as he paces around the room, gesturing for emphasis, you sit on his bed and watch the whole show.

Dawson is, for all intents and purposes, a sucker. After getting dumped, he can't move on with a little dignity. He mopes, he pines, he plots. He wants her back desperately, and you find yourself the one giving him advice on how to get over her. _You_ of all people, whose entire history of romantic experience can be chalked up to pathetic longing. Still, that doesn't mean you're disqualified from trying to give him some guidance, however _mis_guided it may be. You can give your counsel from two things: observation of the teenage relationship cycle, ever present in the typical high school setting, and instinct. Because you know that you could at least have a little dignity and a little common sense to not be so… _pathetic_. At least you have enough self-respect to keep your mouth shut about things like this when it relates to you; at least you have your pride.

"From now until the end of the semester you'll be known as the guy Jen dropped," you tell him, shrugging, beginning your outline of Life After Jen. Dawson sighs morosely, nonplussed by the Public Perception aspect of the post-breakup agenda.

"That's easy enough," he comments in a wooden voice. "What next?"

There's a slight pause. "Other guys," you say soberly, motioning helplessly. "You have to be prepared for the possibility that Jen _will_ start dating again." The two of you seem to deflate simultaneously.

"Watching her from this very window as she…" You pause, getting lost in the picture you're painting in your head. "…pauses coyly by her garden gate, and accepts a goodnight kiss from the guy you feel you're physically and intellectually superior to in every way, and you can't possibly-"

"Okayyyyy, Joey," Dawson cuts you off, transparent smile fixed awfully on his tortured mouth. "I get the point." You look down, embarrassed, and hope he hadn't caught on to the way you got carried away. But he's too distracted by those possibilities, letting them barb him and burn him, and he's lost in his thoughts about how much it will torment him. And no, he doesn't notice that you sigh in perfect synchronization with him and look off at the carpet, thinking the same thing.

"Then there's the inevitable conversation," you continue, "which I'm surprised you haven't had yet." For some reason you keep talking, your mouth keeps going on its own and you _have_ to keep talking or else you'll stop and think some more and the silence will be far too much to bear.

"What's that?" Dawson asks impassively.

"Well, she'll ask if you can still be friends."

Silence. He looks forward blankly, the wheels turning in his head as he struggles.

"Well?" you challenge. "You have to have an answer, Dawson." And still, his eyes are on yours as though he thinks he can find the answer there, and his jaw clenches and unclenches. The way he looks at you, so lost, needing you to tell him what to do, what to say… It's heartbreaking in its wretched irony.

"I don't know!" he bursts, getting to his feet helplessly. "I really don't, I mean… I want to be her friend, but… but at the same time I don't." He stops to run a hand through his dirty-blond hair, and for a moment you're this close to closing your eyes and marveling at the way he seems to be reading your own feelings aloud. He looks at his hands, immersed in his confusion, then looks back up and meets your eyes.

"How can you stand to be friends with someone when every time you look at them, all you think about is how much more you really want." You know he's talking about himself, he _always_ is, but it hits close to home. You stare into his innocent face for a few seconds, not really looking at him, and your gut wrenches. If he only knew that that very same experience he's thinking of could possibly be a reality. That it's a day-to-day hell for you, that _that's_ why you try so hard to not be friends… But by this time you've gone too far, even in your own thoughts, in your own head, and the truth still scares you.

"I'm no expert at this, Dawson," you say quietly, smiling bitterly, "but well… I think it can be done." While he looks up to the ceiling, contemplating his own misery, you stare at his quilt and try not to think at all.


End file.
